Fate:Solstice
by KodiakProphet
Summary: A Holy Grail War, with new and old faces abound. Sinners and saints collide in this test of skill and inner strength. Who will take the Holy Grail, and have their ultimate wish?
1. The Waterside Saint

Chapter One: The Waterside Saint

_It's alright. I am here._

"Martha, just plain Martha. We should go out, and save the world!"

Nominally, Martha did not know what to expect from her potential Master. From the Throne, she had heard his oath and jumped at the chance to do good in the world once more. She expected a Master with strong magical circuits and a modicum of virtue. A city girl turned saint couldn't be picky; after all, she had not been the best, cheeriest person when He found her. She had to be kind and resolute no matter what.

She did not expect this.

Miles stood with his hand outstretched. His Command Seal, shaped like a butterfly, glowed scarlet. On his knees, Miles struggled to his feet. Lightheadedness almost took him back to the ground.

The spirit summoned into his service looked like an angel to him. She stood before him with a welcoming smile. Her hip-length black hair was topped by two gold and white ribbons tied into it. by a Her white dress was trimmed with red and gold, it fell past her knees. Additionally, she wore a short, light blue shawl around her shoulders. In her hands, she held an immaculate staff. It was as tall as her tied with light pink ribbons and topped with a silver cross. Miles expected wings of life to sprout from her back.

Martha could not hide her shock and subsequent concern. The Master that summoned her stood swaying slightly with blood streaking down his face and the smell of smoke on his clothes. He looked no older than her in currently. Small cuts across his face and neck bleed slightly. A nasty rend across his thigh leaked like a flesh wound. He stood in a puddle of his own bloody making. Disheveled and determined, he reached out his hand in greeting.

"We'll save the world," he said raggedly "One person at a time."

As Martha moved forward to shake his hand and ask a very important series of questions, Miles slipped into unconsciousness. Martha rushed forward, caught him, and laid him gently onto the ground.

Looking around quickly, Martha took in her surroundings. She had been summoned in an undercroft of sorts, and in no immediate danger. The damp air clung to her skin. It surprised her. Feeling so many sensations at once, it was almost dizzying.

She jammed her staff into the floor, cracking the stone. Laying her new Master prone, Martha knelt beside him; she ran her hands over the wounds and closed her eyes. Under her breath, she muttered a private prayer.

"_Deliver us,_" she concluded.

The wounds began to close as motes of light, manifested mana, adhered to them and began to glow brightly. By no means did Martha consider herself a healer.

Black smoke rose from Mile's mouth and formed a wispy ball that hovered a foot above him. Martha waved her hand through it and the smokey cloud dissipated. She ran her finger across the faint scars, now formed, on his face. She frowned.

"One person at a time," Martha repeated.

Satisfied for the moment, she willed another prayer into existence. Drawing more motes of light from thin air, Martha could not help but think of the miracles she had seen in her life. It was not much, but it helped her.

The motes of light coalesced into a small ball of luminous white mana. Martha took it in her hand, it felt nearly weightless and warm like sunlight. She tilted it to the side and it spilled across her hand. She poured it, like water, into Miles' mouth.

A peaceful look spread across his face. His chest rose and fell at a regular pace. Then, a low grumble in his throat fought past his lips. His eyes opened slowly and silvery tears slide down the sides of his face. His hands rose to wipe them away, but Martha stopped him. She wiped his tears away with the sleeve of her dress. Martha's calming smile did not waver.

Miles' voice sounded thick to his own ears. The angel was back and hovering over him. She had eyes like a serene sea. The pain in his bones subsided. She pressed the back of her hand to his cheek.

_Her hands are warm and soft. Like sunlight. _Miles thought.

"It's alright. I am here," Martha comforted.

* * *

Miles woke up in a pew. The vaulted ceiling of the church loomed over him. Late morning light flitted through the high windows and splashed the ceiling. Sitting up, he checked his body with his hands. Everything seemed in place and he could only trace the faintest scars.

He looked around the deserted church. Memories flashed in his mind. The explosion. The rogue mages. Sirens and police. The undercroft. The angel.

"I summoned a Servant?" he asked himself aloud. Foreign to his tongue and hazy mind, a Servant in the Holy Grail War was a demonstration of magical power and aptitude. Every Grail War proceeded on the notion that only the strong and best fit to be Master could summon a Servant, a Heroic Spirit.

The Holy Grail, a mana fueled ritual device, manifested familiars nearly identical to human beings as Servants. Masters and Servants were paired mages and Heroic Spirits who battled others for control of the Grail. When one pair remained, they would be granted a wish. The Holy Grail contained enough mana and the ritual sacrifice of Servants contained enough gravitas to rewrite causality. It was taboo magic. It was outlawed by the most obscure laws of the Catholic Church. By all rights, it should not have been possible. Miles felt his brain swimming in his head.

Terror from the night before fueled his desperation and panic. He exhausted every ounce of willpower to keep moving and stay alive.

From the altar of the church, he saw a figure stand up from a kneeling position. It was the angel. The Servant, Miles amended. She walked over to her staff planted in a candlestick holder and lifted it free. She genuflected the altar before turned on her heels and walking quickly to Miles.

She strode down the aisle. She stopped herself at the end of the few and leaned over it. A serene smile reached her bright blue eyes. Miles' brain an extra second to process.

_An angel or a Servant. Am I dead?_

"Are you feeling better, Master?" she asked.

Her voice, like a ringing bell, echoed through the church. The golden light glinted of her the cross atop her staff.

Miles's heart pounded in his ears. He eased himself forward trying to rationalize the very real things before him. She moved, spoke, and breathed as a real person would; the ritual was nothing short of a miracle.

"Master?" he asked. A low rumble of laughter settled in his throat, something between a groan and a chuckle.

The Servant nodded affirmatively. She glanced to her left and right, casting her gaze throughout the empty church.

"You were here when I was summoned," she said earnestly. "And those Command Seals designate you: my Master; and I: your Servant."

Miles felt his mouth dry. He had to be dead. That ritual shouldn't have worked, not for him at least. Competent mages completed rituals, not defrocked priests. What was the world coming to?

"I'm nobody's Master," he replied seriously and shook his head. His eyes caught on the Command Seals. They looked like a scarlet tattoo on the back of his hand. Her rubbed it with a finger, hoping it would fade. It did not. "Who are you? Your name, I mean. What's your name? You saved me, right?"

"Martha, just plain Martha." She said, "I may have helped heal you. God guides my hand, and perhaps a miracle was involved."

Her voice rang again with confidence, like a joyful noise. She reached up and brushed her hair behind her left ear. When Miles responded with a blank stare, she looked a bit crestfallen. She tried to change the subject, and she pointed towards the altar.

"He did not look like that," she said absently. "His beard was more full. Or perhaps his smile made his face look more full. He was considerably darker in skin tone as well."

Miles followed her gaze. She was looking at the crucifix above the altar wall. She seemed more fascinating than outright disapproving. His mind worked back to full cognition, but his mouth moved a touch faster. As the gears of his brain cranked, different thoughts like constellations connected and broke apart.

"That depiction of Christ comes from Pope Alexander the Sixth. He wanted to distance the image of Christ from the natives of the Levant, and commissioned artists to make Christ look like his son, Cesare Borgia. No one really stopped to care why until long after," he explained automatically. He remembered that from an art class he took rather than a theology one.

"It seems a bit deceitful," Martha suggested softly.

"Martha?" Miles wracked his brain. "By He, mean Jesus Christ?"

The woman's face turned to him with a funny look: a think smile and both eyebrows raised. "_Who else but_?" she implied with her look.

"Saint Martha!" Miles hopped to his feet.

"Be still," Martha shushed him, "We're still in church, hallowed grounds, Master."

Miles felt the blood rush from his head and he stumbled. In a flash, Martha's arm shot out and she supported him. He took her arm and settled into the pew as it creaked under their combined weight.

"It's alright. I am here," she comforted. "Lay your head back until you're better, I'm sure He won't mind. Back in my day, we used the church for everything: worship, shelter in bad storms, storage."

She seemed as distant as Miles felt. He settled into the pew and leaned back. A migrating headache rolled across his skull from temple to temple, back and forth. He tried to focus but a mental stumbling block kept tripping him up. He grimaced and groaned from his throat.

"Master?"

He tried to focus on something to clear the mental block and ripples of pain. Then, Miles felt a warm hand, as gentle as sunlight, brush his cheek. He flinched. His eyes snapped open and he saw the Saintly Martha recoil her hand, as if she were shocked. The mixed expression on her face leaned heavily on worry.

But, her touch was real. Miles felt it. He could not have doubts she was real. The ritual was a success. His prayer had been answered and now he had to face the consequences of it. A living, breathing saint, a war between mages, and him. That reality existed and he could scarcely rationalize it.

"Miles," he said as he screwed his eyes shut, "Just Miles, please. Not Master, that's a bit much to take in right now.

I can barely think. I can hardly stand. I wish I was dead."

He felt a soft pinch on his cheek. By reflex, he turned towards the pinch and opened his eyes. His heart stopped for a moment. For a moment, his brain framed and focused on two details: eyes like an ocean storm, and the sweet, earthy smell of sandalwood. Then, he heard the clatter of metal and wood on the stony floor. The spirit, given flesh by temporary miracle, who just so happened to be a Catholic Saint, had scooted closer and pinched his cheek to scold him. His brain could hardly process it.

"I never want to hear you say that again," Martha said with a serious glare. "Or so help me I will pound into your bones the will to live. So long as I draw breath, you are not allowed to fall. Am I understood, Master?"

The passion in her eyes startled him. His hand flew up and pushed hers away from his cheek. When he did, her eyes widened suddenly. She leaned back a few inches. A bashful look reddened her face and she turned her head away for a moment.

Something in his brain clicked. Saint Martha. She met Christ and served him. She was the sister of Mary and Lazarus, and a devout disciple of Christ. When He died, she was exiled from Judea. Then, she tamed the dragon Tarrasque with prayer and holy water. After her short display, he wondered if _only _prayer and holy water played a role. It didn't bother him is a saint acted in such a way, righteous anger could be a good thing too.

"Miles, not Master," he corrected her softly. "Just Miles. Is that okay by you? Just Martha?"

Bashfulness gave way to serenity.

"Of course, Just Miles," she laughed softly.

Taking a breath, and pushing past the pounding in his head, Miles sighed, "So, this is really happening? The Holy Grail War is real."

"I am afraid it is," Martha said quietly. "That is why we must do our best to win. And ff I may have a wish, I intend to do good in this world, in this life."

Miles watched the Saintly Servant carefully. Her lips had drawn into a tight smile. Her eyes lifted towards the vaulted ceiling. She looked effortlessly radiant. For a moment, she looked painfully vulnerable. The latter observation cut deep into his heart.

_This is all my fault, _he thought

She turned to him fully and regarded him with serenity and assurance. In a flash, any vulnerability she had evaporated into the light.

"My wish is for all people to experience the wonders of the Lord. I would not force it upon them, but I do wish more people would see His works upon the world." She seemed lost in thought for a second, but she snapped back immediately. She asked, "What is your wish? When we first met, you wanted to save the world, remember? One person at a time."

Cold shame slapped Miles like freezing tide. Even a former priest couldn't lie to saint incarnate. While he had many, many questions, this church was as good as any other place to begin confessing. His shoulders sagged.

"I don't know," he admitted. "I was just hurt really bad last night. I was scared, alone, and in pain when I stumbled into this church. I would have said anything if it meant you would help me, I think. I'm sorry. I selfishly asked God for a miracle, and He answered in the form of you.

If so, I don't know if this is a blessing or another test. I'm sure how much more I can take. Then, when you appeared in front of me last night, I only had one thought on my mind: I want to live.

I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I-"

Warmth. Miles felt his brain short circuit as his eyes shot open. Warmth not his own. His arms stuck out awkwardly. Rosemary. He liked the smell. He closed his eyes once more and let his head rest just a moment longer. Then, a low rumble in his chest turned to hiccuping laughter and a relieved sigh. By instinct, he patted her back softly.

The Heroic Spirit, Saint Martha of Tarascon incarnate, began to laugh as well. When she subsided, she waited until Miles broke off their embrace. That was an important part to her. To anyone she came across who needed her help, she allowed the courtesy. She never knew when such a person, especially children, would have a hug again. It was always best to be patient and let them take their time. Though she never had someone, even Mary, try to comfort her back. She added the back pat - hug combo to her arsenal.

Miles let go.

Martha gave him a quick pat on the cheek and pretended to not see him wipe his face. Her Master would never cry over something as simple as a hug.

She said calmly, "We are only human. Though you call me a _saint_, I feel very much like the same girl I was when I met the Messiah: selfish, stubborn, and quite likeable. Please forgive me if I fail to reach your expectations. I only wish to help people given this life."

Martha stood up and collected her fallen staff. She dusted off some stony debris and blew on it just to be sure. Surely, He would forgive her for dropping it. An important matter came to her presence and she could not let it go unanswered, she reasoned.

She did always wonder why He gave her this staff. Maybe it had something to do with what see did to Lazarus. She would have been quite embarrassed if He had to bring Lazarus back twice. The staff was a gift to say the least, with it she could face down any foe peacefully. Without it, she could face down any foe. Perhaps that was the lesson.

Parts of Miles' old self wandered back to him, he appraised the Heroic Spirit with interest and a hint of admiration. He said, "I've seen ghosts, fought demons and devils, mages and vicars alike; but, I have never seen an angel or a saint. Spirit or not, this is something of a moment for me. It's nice to meet you, Martha. Thank you for saving me."

Martha began to fan the air in front of her to diffuse his words. "Oh, think little of the saintly aspect, please? And I am nothing like an angel," she said quickly. "For the purposes of the Grail War, I'm nothing more than a Servant, a Rider-class Servant. Though, this vessel does do me some undue justice." She said more quietly to herself, "Mary was the prettier one."

"What was that?" Miles asked standing up and bracing himself against the pew.

"We should head out at once," Martha said with a tight voice. "Yes, I wish to see the world the Lord had made once again. Please?"

A moment of lucidity washed over Miles. Again, he examined the Heroic Spirit of a venerated saint.

"We might draw attention with your look," he said curtly.

Her eyes went wide for a moment. Then, Martha's smile tightened at the corner of her lips. "I'm a holy woman, thank you very much."

"Not like that," he said. "You need to look more modern, to blend in. Not- Hey, don't give me that look, I didn't mean it like…"

In the late morning, their voices carried through the empty church. The world remained oblivious to the commencement of the Solstice Holy Grail War.

* * *

"Is this _better_?" Martha asked.

She stepped through the wooden church doors a bit past noon. A new set of clothes, more modern, but conservative replaced her previous attire. She had tied back her hair into a half bun, and a hairpin with a silver cross kept it in place. The earrings were new, or maybe they had always been there. Miles couldn't tell either, but they matched her eyes for what is was worth.

Compared to her, Miles looked like he had a rough night. He had, but the thought quickly dismissed itself as he glanced down the street. The sleepy city finally awoke in the warmth of the afternoon. The cold chill of morning, which came with wintry winds, burned away in the faint sunlight.

Then, there was the murmuring. Gossip followed crowds and people tended to talk too loud when news hit. The inferno from the night before had burned down a city block. It was the same inferno and preceding ambush that left Miles injured. There were quite a few casualties, despite first responders best efforts. And something about a nurse who gave people alcohol for the pain.

Miles made a mental note to avoid the northside of the city. He looked to Martha for a moment and paused. A thick mental fog slackened his tongue and dulled his sight. He couldn't dredge up a memory no matter how hard he tried. It troubled him . As he collected his troubled thoughts, Martha spoke.

"Please do not look at me like that," Martha said softly.

Suddenly self-conscious, Miles began to apologize. Before he could complete an apology, Martha shuffled closer to him. She poked at the corners of the mouth with both fingers and gently forced a smile onto his face. He couldn't resist, and Miles watched her closely. The faintest scent of rosemary floated by him. She smelled of rosemary, the back of his brain tickled.

"No matter how much I push, that smile won't reach your eyes until you let it. Keep working on it, okay?"

"Okay, okay," Miles said as he pushed her hands away. "Thank you."

Martha took a step back and collected herself. She cast her gaze far and long through the city.

"Oh my, I guess things never really change," Martha said aloud.

Miles watched as she turned away, took a few steps forward, and basked for a moment. She clasped her hands just below her chest and she paused. Even without seeing her lips, Miles knew a petitionary prayer by form and faith alone. Like an ocean both rolling and serene on the horizon under a golden sun, Martha stood washed in warmth and light. Her gaze lingered on the harbor and sea beyond it. She turned on her heel and faced Miles with a peaceful look on her face.

_If she's not a saint, then what the hell does that make me? _Miles asked himself. _Just a fool. _

Without hesitation, Martha asked, "What shall we do first?"


	2. Nurse of Iron

Chapter Two: Nurse of Iron

* * *

_I'm a nurse_

Atrocious. The medical staff looked atrocious in the midst of the chaos. Everytime flames belched from the burning building, someone would scream or whimper, even if they were uninjured. The Berserker Servant, Florence Nightingale, rolled up her sleeves and went to work. She marched to the nearest medical table and swiped a first aid kit off of it.

Striding through the clusters of people and mismanaged treatments, walked into the triage tent with scurrying first responders. Modern tools of medicine beeped and blinked. No one seemed to be aware of her presence.

A trio of fireman carried an injured woman and set her down on a blanket. Her head bore superficial burns and the stenched of burnt hair surrounded her. She cried profusely and begged someone to stay beside her. A fireman clipped a yellow tag to the burned woman's charred shirt before speeding off to join his companions.

Nightingale crouched beside the woman and began to examine her. Distressed. Disorientated. Superficially injured. She would live. In a low, but cheery voice, Nightingale patted the woman's knee and said, "Don't worry man. You'll be fine. I'll get you something for the pain."

The burned woman nodded with a whimper. She asked, "Are you a paramedic?"

"No."

Nightingale dug through her goodie bad of medical supplies: low grade painkillers, a bag mask, a pressure cuff. All of it was wonderful and particularly useless to her. Instead she reached to her hip and produced a flask. She carefully place the painkillers and flask into the woman's hands.

"Take those and wash it down," she ordered as she began to gauze the woman's head, applying burn aid as needed.

The woman did so and gagged on the liquid contents. "Th-that's strong," she said. "Are you some wacko doctor?"

Taking the flask, Nightingale took a sip and capped it. She affixed the gauze with a velcro adhesive and drew a checkmark on the yellow tag with a marker she found. She wrote on the woman's forearm: 1B- HD - T. It stood for 1st degree burns, head, topically treated. It probably wasn't the system these people used but any medic should have gotten the clue.

"Even better," Nightingale said nonchalantly, "I'm a nurse."

Standing up, she sighed and looked around. More people had flooded into the triage tent. Adults mostly, and a fair number of them lacked decent clothes. That is to say, there were dressed for pleasure rather than sense.

"Your treatment is complete, but sit still until you're discharge by another medical personnel. And don't wander off," Nightingale added. "If you die, I'll kill you myself."

Casually, Nightingale walked to the most gruesome looking injuries and their respective owners. The blaze behind her grew ever bright in the night sky. At some point, the large Each with a red tag, indicating serious/life threatening injuries, had no less than three people attending to them.

She sat with a boy with that suffered smoke inhalation, another yellow. She palpated his throat for any unseen injuries. Finding none, she slipped an oxygen mask from his face and ordered him to breathe slowly and calmly. He nodded and Nightingale patted his head. She reached for her flask but paused.

"How old are you?" she asked.

"Seventeen." His voice was muffled through the oxygen mask.

_Seventeen, ah, not quite a boy, _Nightingale thought to herself. She uncapped her flask and pressed it in the boy's hands.

"Just a nip," she ordered firmly.

The boy gagged and sputtered, but, to his credit, he didn't spit. His eyes began to water and he looked up at Nightingale incredulously. "What the hell?" he coughed.

"Scotch," she explained, "It's a handy painkiller and disinfectant. Now stay alive soldier, nurse's orders."

She used her marker to write: A - OX/M - (M) on his forearm. She checked his breathing for abnormalities. She found none. Then, she gave him a light pat on the cheek. The frantic pace had settled down in the tent. The dead were brought in and laid respectfully under privacy cloths. Nightingale didn't pay them much mind. They were beyond her help after all; it was best not to dwell on them.

Nightingale pressed down a nagging feeling in her gut. No matter how much she did, she knew it would not balance the scale.

She ducked out of the triage tent and surveyed the battlefield. Finally, the blazing inferno slowly succumbed to the efforts of first responders. Another night, another fight, Nightingale could not distinguish them well. Not anymore at least. This battlefield would be cleaned up soon and she could not remain.

* * *

Nightingale found her Master smoking a cigarette outside a late night cafe. He took a long drag before standing up and tipping generously. He was a peculiar man to say the least. He had deep olive skin and a gaze that seemed to look through people. He had long hair for a man as well. He spoke with a loose cadence and a light tone. He stubbed out the cigarette and flicked it into a planter pot.

"Took your time." He asked, "Did you find him, Berserker?"

Nightingale felt her jaw clench. She shook her head.

"Answer me politely, like a civil person, with your words." His tone never changed as he walked closer to her.

"No," she replied with a tight voice.

"No," He repeated. "Just no?"

"No." Nightingale said. She turned to see her Master shake his head almost sorrowful.

He lifted a hand slowly. His Command Seals traunted her and he snapped his fingers. Nightingale flinched. A half-second later, a distant boom. A few city blocks away, smoke began to rise into the night sky.

Nightingale felt her blood boil in her veins. She reached for her flask and took a sip. _Bastard. Bastard. I'll kill you, I swear it. _

"Let's try that one more time." He placed a hand on Nightingale's shoulder and pushed the flask away from her mouth. "Did you find the mage?"

Nightingale capped her flask and glared at her Master. "I did not find him, Master."

"Shame." He while sliding his hand to the back of her head. He gripped her hair tightly and offered an innocuous look. "I'll give you another twenty-four hours. No mana until you find him though."

"Understood, Master," she said through gritted teeth.

He released her hair and smiled. "I have faith in you Berserker. Tear the city apart if you need to."

Then, without a care or a worry, he turned his back on her and walked down the street. She could have killed him right there. She could have choked him to death or beat his soul into oblivion with her own hands. But satisfying her ego would only lead to more destruction, more pain. That would have been hers to bear.

Her Master made it abundantly clear: until he won, he would hold the city hostage and force every Master to come to him. He was a dirty bastard in her mind. He rigged the city with glyphs tied to his genetic, magical circuits. Innumerable, magical bombs were tied to his dead man switch and he could invoke of them at the snap of finger.

Nightingale had no way of knowing their power, number, or location. As long as she obeyed him, and rooted out the Masters, he would not have to resort to such methods. She gripped her first aid kit tightly and began to run in the direction of the explosion.

* * *

When she arrived on the scene, Nightingale felt faint. The lack of mana in her system made her sluggish and lacking clarity. She blinked several times. Lightheaded, Nightingale took a step forward and braced herself against a brick wall. Breathing heavily, something she almost forgot she had thumped in her chest. For the first time in forever, fear gripped her heart and threatened her life. She slid down the wall and into unconsciousness.

The roar of guns woke her. She scrambled to her feet and took cover against the wooden walls of the trench. Another battlefield, another life. The Grail gave it form and its form tortured her.

A gray dawn sky drizzled drearily across a crater filled field. The storm of battle raged above her head. Rifles snapped sporadically as cavalry thundered across the wet ground. Screams of men and horses mixed into the din. Screwing her eyes shut, Nightingale tried to shut it out. One voice stuck out from the clamor. One single cry and Nightingale's fear took a backseat.

"Help!"

_That's right. That's why I came here, _she thought. _I cannot shy away from my duty. Not now, not ever._

Gathering herself, Nightingale checked herself. Her beat up flask still hung on her hip strap. Her old kit bag hugged her body. Inside it, bandages, small bottles of antiseptic, scissors, pins and, a rare drug for her to keep, morphine. The morphine was a drug of last resort. She would never give it up until all hope had been lost.

_Never, _she resolved internally, _I will never use this. _

Soldier's called it an "Angel's Kiss". No matter the wound, it would soothe their pain and comfort them in their final moments. Nightingale hated that. With all her being, she hated that notion. Death ran amok in the battlefield and in disgusting military hospitals; but it was meant to be fought, not given into with a peaceful smile and blank stares. Life, even a painful life, was better than death.

Crouching low and moving through the trench, Nightingale strained her hearing. She paused at an intersection as a squad of soldiers ran past her to the frontlines. They paid her no mind. The soldiers never did until they needed help.

"Incoming!"

Instinct took over. Nightingale threw herself into the muddy trench floor and opened her mouth. The earth shook and mud splattered onto the trench walls. The blastwave vibrated every bone in her body. Hearing an all clear, Nightingale clawed her way to her feet and began running.

Breathing hard, she navigated by sound rather than sight. The soldier's voice, the one who called for help, still rang out, but grew fainter with each moment.

The smell of gunpowder and seared flesh greeted her as she turned into a blown out artillery position. The wreckage of detonated shells and twisted metal had killed two soldiers outright. A third soldier lay with his back twisted at an odd angle, barely alive. The fourt one, seated against a trench wall held profuse wound in his lower right abdomen.

Nightingale rushed across the artillery position and began to drag the soldier away. If shells landed there once, they could land there again. She ordered, "Keep pressure until I tell you tool."

The soldier looked up. He was still a boy, damnit. Nightingale pulled him into a covered portion of the trench. She pried his weak hands away and began her primary examination. Male. Young. Severe laceration to the lower right abdomen and possible head trauma. Vascular rupture.

"Are you- are you an angel?" the soldier asked. He cough twice and sprayed blood onto Nightingale. Wordlessly, she handed the soldier her flask. Almost meekly, he took a swig. Before he took another, she snatched it away and took a sip herself.

"Even better," Nightingale replied. "I'm a nurse."

Field diagnosis was grim, but not deadly. If she ligated the vein, a proper doctor could graft a new one. That was the best course of action, she didn't have the materials or knowledge to bypass the ruptured vein. She sewed up the vein as best she could and began to package the wound with gauze and bandages. The soldier squirmed and groaned. He tried pushing her away, but Nightingale persisted.

Covered in blood, Nightingale pour antiseptic over her hands and tools. As she was about to move him once more, she heard the cocking of a trigger. She quickly turned and looked up.

An enemy soldier stood atop the trench, his long rifle aimed angled down at her. He looked young as well, as young as the soldier she tried to save. His eyes were hard and tired. The rifle shook in his hands. Nightingale saw something as small as a pebble fall out of the barrel.

"Don't," she ordered softly. "He's already incapacistated. He's a non-combatant."

He didn't budge. He said something in a foreign language and shook his head.

"Just move along soldier," she said more firmly. "There's no honor in -"

The crack of the rifle startled her. The soldier atop the trench looked surprised himself.

Her blood boiled. Nightingale rushed forward and grabbed his boot. Yanking him down, he slipped into the mud and his rifle clattered against the wooden walls. She pinned the soldier against the wall. The heat of her breath fogged the air between them. Between her breath, she saw look of despair in his eyes. He spouted something unintelligible and buried his head in his hands.

Dropping him to the mud, she turned injured soldier. The wall beside him grew splinters but he seemed unharmed. Pallor, short of breath, and losing consciousness, Nightingale surmised that he was running out of ran over to him and lifted him onto his feet.

He clung to her weakly. She held him tight and trudged through the trenches. _I am not giving up on you. Do not give up on me. _

"Incoming!"

The whistle was too close. She dropped the injured soldier, threw herself over his body, and shut her eyes.

* * *

She opened her eyes. A blue gray sky with clouds abound and sunshine streaming through greeted her. Nightingale unclenched her jaw and balled her fists. The dreams took her in the worst moment. Her breathing didn't normalize for a few moments.

She found herself laying in the grass of a city park. Rolling her head left and right, she noticed the park was nearly deserted. Gnarled, naked trees grasped the sky. Gold and ruby leaves carpeted the ground around her. She tried to pick herself, but weakness in her arms and legs pinned her to the ground. Lacking a mana source, she knew the clock was ticking. Twenty four hours to kill a Master and bring the War one step closer to the end; one step closer to having her wish. She blinked away the frustration before her eyes could water. Her head rolled to the side and Nightingale pounded her fist into the leafy grass weakly.

A young couple came running over to her: a young woman and young man.

"Hey, hey miss, are you okay?" the man said. He slid on his knees next to Nightingale. "Are you hurt?"

"Maa - Miles! Be careful!" the woman shouted. "Miss, what happened to you?"

Nightingale forced herself to sit up. An excruciating pain shot up her spine and the taste of a copper filled her mouth. Wine red blood splashed the grass beside her. She brought a gloved hand to her mouth and frowned at the fresh blood stains.

"Unhygienic," she grumbled.

"Miles don't," the young woman warned. "She's a - "

The young man cut her off with a strange look: compassion twisted with pain. Nightingale had seen that look before and it made her blood run cold. He knelt beside Nightingale and kept a firm grip on her upper arm, just enough to keep her stable and sitting.

"One person at a time," he said softly before turning to Nightingale. The smile on his face did not meet his eyes. He pulled a lily white handkerchief from his pocket and offered it.

Nightingale took it and wiped the blood from the edge of her mouth. As she pulled it away, she saw the embroidery of a small, equilateral cross. _A Christina man, a priest? A young priest? Strange times, perhaps a chaplain. _She wiped the blood off her gloves and sighed.

When she glanced back up at the young man, the false smile had disappeared. In its place, a hard set, lopsided frown sat. She glanced down at the man's hand grasping her firmly. The aqua glow of magical cuiructs sparked to life.

"One person at a time," he repeated.

_He knows. _Nightingale wanted to get up and run. Without a mana source, she was as weak as any normal human. Even a spell from a novice mage could destroy her Spiritual Core. She tried to rise, but the weakness in her legs and grip on her arms pinned her to the ground.

"Stop fussing," he said evenly.

Blue-green tendrils of mana leapt from his hands and into Nightingale's arm. She braced from the pain, and found none. A gentle feeling, like a tender wave washing over her body, rushed through her. She began to breathe easier. _Mana. _she realized, _he's sharing the mana stored in his body. _The coppery taste of blood in her mouth subsided.

The young man released his arm and began to huff audiably. He lost color in his face and his eyes stared off in the distance. He had given a fair bit of himself to her. The young woman moved forward and support him.

"If you're fine, you can leave," the young woman said with a glare.

"You're a Servant," Nightingale wanted to smack herself for not realizing. "You're a Servant and he's your Master."

A cool breeze passed through the park. Leaves rustled like whispers. The late afternoon sun slipped through the cloud and raced towards the earth. For the first time in forever, Nightingale felt the warmth of the sun on her skin. She buried her head in her hands.

"I will not forgive this," Nightingale swore softly. "You, of all people, should not be helping me."

"Where's your Master?" the Servant asked cooly. Despite her reservation, the Servant crouched beside Nightingale and fell into a sit amongst the leaves. "What happened to you?"

"Hey."

Nightingale felt a warm touch. She lifted her head to see a sad smile and an angel hovering nearby. Were it not her duty, she could never see herself raising a hand against these two.

"War is a terrible thing," she swallowed. "I want to do away with it. Is that a good enough wish?"

The Master look to his Servant and they shared a tense look. Nightingale expected them to dispatch her quickly if they were merciful. The Master and Servant.

"War isn't the worst thing," the Master sighed. "It's complicated and destructive, but it's not a terrible thing. War is just another form of diplomacy. It's more dangerous, more costly, and categorically bad, but its not without its purpose."

"War is diplomacy?" Nightingale had to laugh. "I cannot see any wisdom in that. War is a tragedy, even after the last bullet is fired. The sooner it is ended, the sooner the healing can begin."

"Who are you?" the Master asked with a sad smile. "I cannot think of a single Heroic Spirit that hates war so much."

Nightingale balked. "My Master has left me for dead, so I cannot see the harm in telling you." She pulled off on gloves and extended her hand to the other Master. He took it warmly. "I am the Heroic Spirit: Florence Nightingale at your service."

"Mother of Modern Nursing," the Master's eyes lit up, "The Angel of Crimea."

"What is it with you and angels?" the Servant asked with a weary sigh. She piled up a small group of leaves absentmindedly.

"I'm Miles and that's Martha, Saint Martha. I'm sorry if she seems a little crabby, we didn't get coffee this morning."

"I'm not crabby," Martha snapped. "I'm just tired."

"She's crabby," Miles said again. "What do you mean your Master left you for dead?"

Realizing she still held his hand, Nightingale withdrew slightly and brushed her hair from her face. The Master, Miles, sat patiently beside her as she explained everything: her Master's plan, the explosions, her hand in hunting Masters.

"Wait a minute, Master is she the one that…" the other Servant realized slowly. "I'm gonna kill her," Martha said calmly, "I'm gonna kill her dead."

"She never hurt anyone. From what she's told us, she tried to help people caught in the middle," Miles said. He turned back towards Nightingale and sighed. "You did a number on me, remember?"

"I don't."

"And she's a liar," Martha swatted her pile of leaves.

"No, I really don't," Nightingale pulled her flask from her hip and uncapped it. "This Scotch helps. It nullifies my Madness Enhancement, temporarily. Otherwise, I do as I am ordered. Ruthlessly." She took a swig and scowled at the burning sensation in her throat. "I might have hurt you. I understand if you can't forgive me."

"What a martyr," Martha scoffed. "He wouldn't have given you mana if he didn't forgive you."

"Martha?" Miles turned to his Servant. "Are you okay?"

"Physically, yes," she snapped. "I just can't stand you being near someone who nearly killed you."

"Temper, temper," he replied softly.

"Don't start with me; you keep running off into trouble, and I have to keep patching you back up!"

Nightingale felt something new: second hand shame. Despite being Master and Servant, they acted quite familiar with one another. It was almost endearing in her eyes. She coughed non discreetly to remind them they had company present. A possible enemy, yet, but company. The sane part of her did not need to deal with _personal _conflict in addition to physical conflict.

"Sorry, one moment," Miles said to Nightingale. Then, he turned to Martha, "Can we talk about this later? I'm _only_ human, sorry if I keep messing up. I'm trying. "

The Servant Saint Martha took the higher road. She sighed deeply, closed her eyes for a moment, and nodded. Whatever mental stress she had left for a moment. She reached across Nightingale and poked her Master's face.

"Don't give the nurse such a sad smile," she said. "Carry on."

Nightingale laughed quietly. The stupefied look the Master's face slowly gave way to soft contentment. The smile reached his eyes for a brief moment and he turned to her.

"Again, sorry about that, she's only looking out for me," he explained sheepishly. "She is incredibly stubborn, wonderfully driven, and kinder than she lets on."

"I'm right here," Martha chimed in. Nightingale noticed an embarrassed smile on the other Servant lips before she straightened herself up.

Miles continued and clasped Nightingales hand between his own. "You don't have to fight alone. I'm sorry about the past; I feel just as guilty for letting innocent people get caught in the crossfire of our war. The quicker we can end this war, the faster we can heal others.

Maybe by doing you a little goodness, you can do a little goodness for someone else. We may be adversaries, but we don't have to hate each other. That sounds fair, right?"

Nightingale couldn't find it in her to protest. Something in his touch, something in his look, caused her to falter. There was nothing particularly resolute or intense about him. He spoke in a wavering voice, his hands, though firm, gently shook, and his gaze pleaded more than promised.

_He's a softie. _Nightingale smirked. _What a wonderful Master I could have had. _

"You do what has to be done, and so shall I," she said. "Thank you for sharing your mana, but I have nothing to give you in return."

"A promise would be nice," he replied quickly, "Just one small promise, miss nurse."

Nightingale had to laugh again. "If it's in my power to do so, I can oblige you."

Miles leaned forward and whispered in her ear. A mischievous smile crawled onto the old nurse's lips. However much she would want to abstain from it, the tantalizing thought peppered her brain with curiosity and envy. She was not above it all, but the simplicity and audacity his request almost made her forget the world. However, it did not change how she saw the young Master. His request very much came from the same place of meekness and honesty he exuded.

"I will look into that for you," she replied coolly.

"Martha," he said to his Servant, "She'll avoid us the best she can. For the moment, we have a temporary ally."

_He's a terrible liar. Be kind to him, there are few like him I have ever met. _

The Saintly Servant looked to her Master, then Nightingale, and back to her Master. She rolled her eyes and placed a hand on Nightingale's shoulder.

"Go in peace, good nurse, if my Master has faith in you, so shall I."

"Keep him safe," Nightingale pleaded quietly. The lucidity of her own request troubled her.

"The Lord protects, and so shall I," came a slightly sarcastic reply.

"We'll be off Miss Nightingale," Miles said letting go of her hand. "I wish you the best."

_What the hell, why not? I am deserve something too. _She found the strength to act quickly. She grabbed Miles by the lapel of his jacket and pulled him close. She pressed her lips gently onto his cheek. Nightingale took not a single shred romantic pleasure in it; she simply satisfied herself in her own redamancy.

"Thank you for the mana," she laughed again. "I will keep up my end of the promise, on my honor as a nurse."

"Did she just…lewd. Lewd, lewd, lewd!" Martha said with obvious distress. Nightingale wondered if she wanted a kiss on the cheek too.

Nightingale pushed herself to her feet, and the Master and Servant pair followed suit. She dusted off her trousers and took a sip of her flask. She offered it to Miles. Surprisingly, it was Martha who pinched it first and knocked back a shot. The mostly saintly glare Nightingale had ever seen leveled at her. The glare was only slightly complicated by the sudden blush on her face and a grimace settled on her lips.

She watched as Miles desperately hid a snicker and pulled his Servant away. For a moment, Nightingale wondered if a holy woman of the Lord could throw a punch. They made quite a pair.

_If only, if only, _Nightingale thought as they walked away from her. _Nevertheless, I have a job to do and a promise to keep. _


	3. Archer of Inferno

Chapter Three: Archer of Inferno

* * *

_I'll serve you wherever you go. That is my duty as someone who is here as your servant._

"Scouting mission in thirty minutes," Liam called from his bedroom .

"By scouting mission, you mean, _scouting _mission, yes? Not another _lecherous _attempt to seduce me?" came a reply from the living room.

"I am offended. My honor has been tarnished and you have cut me to the quick, my lady," Liam feigned a pained look on his face. He walked into the living room and dropped the act completely when he saw her.

A Heroic Spirit, he reasoned, should look heroic. When he had summoned his Servant, Liam expected a great hero chomping at the bit to spring into action, take names, and bust heads. But heroes were known by their deeds, not by their ideals. The very nature of a hero can slide from savage to meek. The ideal hero is simply one who has the power to perform a heroic feat, all other variables can be done away with.

That said, Liam found himself underwhelmed in the best way possible.

Still in her pajamas, the Heroic Spirit Tomoe Gozen lounged on the couch while growing increasingly frustrated with her video game.

"There would be no point in that, my lady. My charm is not strong enough to sway you," he said plopping onto the couch beside her.

She shot him a dirty glare as she her video game character dodge-rolled off a cliff. She set the controller down and stretched out her legs across the couch. _She's always tired; that's my fault Archer, I'm sorry. _Liam thought to himself.

"No matter how much you try, you will not sway my heart, pervert," Archer assured him. "I still don't know why we must hide like dishonorable opportunists. Nevermind, I know why, but I do not like it."

Liam rolled his neck and rubbed the back of it. "Improper summonings come with complications," he repeated for the hundredth time.

"We have yet to face one foe in a whole month, Master Liam," Archer said with a huff.

_She's cute when she pouts, _he thought to himself.

He mused, "Well, everyone is being cautious still. Berserker and their Master have been systematically wreaking havoc across the city. No one wants to show their hand first. And, the moderator of the war has yet to order Master of Berserker to halt their tactics."

"Then, it's only a matter of time before Berserker and their Master find us." Archer lifted her arms and pushed up the sleeves of her pajamas. Her ivory arms were slender and well toned, Liam noticed. "I've not had time to practice nor spar. If Berserker finds us, I may be at a disadvantage."

Liam understood her sentiment. However, he knew that fielding her in a combat capacity now would only be detrimental. Who would the fight anyway? Berserker was still an unknown variable and all he knew was that they were behind the fire bombings in the city. The other Servants kept well hidden, like himself and Archer. From a Classification perspective, Saber should be their easiest opponent. The range and magical piercing of Archer's class could take down a high rarity Saber and Caster. Other than those two, everyone else was a wild card. If given the right terrain, she had their enemy dead to rights. If she had the magical energy to deploy her Noble Phantasm, she could take on anyone. If.

Instead she was laid up in Liam's house because he was an inferior mage. For all her bluster and bravado, Liam knew she couldn't hold a candle against another Servant fully powered. He estimated she lingered around thirty percent of her total strength. The issue lay in her summoning and his faulty magical circuits.

The curse of the Callahan mages lay in their magical circuits and Liam was no exception. His magical circuits lay running the length of his heart. By and large, it empowered his own magecraft; however, in order to share mana with his Servant, he would literally be giving up a part of his life. The more taxing the mana transfer began, the more liable he was to collapse and deteriorate from the draining of his mana. It stung in a special way when he examined his Command Seals, shaped like an arrow pierced bird.

The ancient ancestors of the Callahan's was a right bastard, Liam often thought. When the gods of ireland still roamed the verdant fields, his damn ancestor had to fall in love with one. It was a good story, by all means, but sometimes Liam wondered what fool would fall in love with a supreme being. What idiot would give his life and soul to love someone who could not possibly love them back. It would be like loving the sun itself. Then, he promptly shut his mental trap when he caught Archer's gaze.

"You're frowning, Master. Did you remember that you're going to die alone?" Archer asked as she threw a pillow at his face.

"Will you ever forgive me?" Liam asked with a laugh. He leaned across the couch, hovering just a few inches from Archer's body, and plucked the game controller from her armrest. "It was an honest mistake."

Archer's face grew red. She kicked and swatted at Liam until he slid off the couch. "Pervert! Lech! Son of a flea bitten dog! I will not, I will never forgive you unless you help me get my wish. Until then, you are scum and your egregious sin is beyond forgiveness."

"Still your Master," he reminded her casually and unpaused the game. "Wait, you're stuck on the bridge? You just have to time the dragon's breath attack and use the i-frames to get through the fire."

"I-frames?" Archer relented her assault for a moment. "What are I-frames?"

Liam showed her. "Basically, the game registers your character moving. In the frames that they move, the animation cannot be canceled, so the character takes no damage. It's useful in this game, one of the forgiving mechanics. Here."

After handing back the controller, Liam watched his Servant closely. From the first day they met, she always displayed one remarkable trait: adaptability. It showed in the video games he let her play while they stayed in most days. Any game she picked up, she could master within a few hours. Systems of play were not always intrinsic, but somehow she picked up on them. She devoured games like they offered something meaningful. Perhaps they did, but to Liam they just killed time.

"Archer, why are you so interested in video games? Didn't the Grail spawn you into this era with knowledge of, like, everything?" he asked.

"Everything important," she clarified as she cleared the bright. A triumphant glow spread across her face as she reached a checkpoint, an unlit bonfire. A sigh of relief soon followed. "And some unimportant things, but not games. I believe I'd always had a weakness for games. They are, in some ways, bloodless battles. One may enjoy the thrill without loss of life and limb."

_Note to self, do not introduce her to multiplayer games. _

"Must we conduct your _scouting _mission?" she asked as she sat up. She straightened out her long hair by hand and twisted it in her hands. "Last time we went out, people stared."

_Why wouldn't they, you're breathtaking, _he didn't say aloud. _You really can't dull your shine, can you?_

"I can't magically make people ignore you," Liam said instead. "It might be possible but it's beyond my capability."

"Fine, but I will make a request in return," Archer said as she stood up and stretched. With her hands stretched high above her head, she yawned and her pajama top started to rise, showing skin.

Liam averted his eyes and pretend to focus on the game. "I'm taking you out, what more do you want, Archer?"

Archer quickly pulled down the hem of her shirt and coughed into a fist. "Well this mission is for your sake. I can face down any foe we stumble upon if you weren't overly cautious." She walked around the back of the couch and towards her room. She stopped at the hallway and peeked out at Liam. Her long, lovely hair hung around her face and her bright eyes shifted to never meet Liam's gaze head-on. "I wish to see the festival again," she said barely above a whisper.

Before Liam could reply, she ducked into her room to prepare.

_She is cute. She is very cute. _Liam frowned. _But she is also too good for you._

His jumped into the boss fight with Archer's character. She favored a martial class, go figure, with a splash of pyromancy. Liam smiled internally, the girl had a type, it seemed. He stacked a fire buff onto his main weapon and began the arduous process of chipping through the boss' three health bars.

By the time he finished, Archer had popped back into the living room. She looked refreshed and stepped just a bit livelier. Her apparel trended towards something more practical than aesthetically pleasing. However she dressed, the athletic shape of her body lent itself to slender curves and tone muscle just underneath layers of clothes. As she pulled on a beige jacket, she looked to Liam expectantly. Realizing this, she scowled.

"To where did you plan to go?" she asked.

Liam rose from the couch and ran a hand through his hard. A yawn took his words from his mouth and his body seized in flex that follows only the deepest yawns. When he opened his eyes, Archer shifted uncomfortably on the balls of her feet.

"Uh, sorry," he said. "The South bridge would give us a good vantage point. Good visibility coupled with a nice diner that opens after midnight."

"A good vantage point would be excellent," Archer said brushing past him and waiting at the door. She opened it a fraction. Then, she closed it and turned to Liam. "Take a jacket," she ordered.

"I'll be fine. I'm always warm," he said, shaking his head.

Opening the door, he offered his hand. "After you my lady," he said with a grin.

The glare that followed took little effect. Liam locked up the house as they ventured into the late evening.

* * *

The South Bridge was a suspension bridge built in a neomodern design. What neomodern meant was beyond Tomoe Gozen's knowledge but she knew the word and that was sufficient. With many things in the modern era, Tomoe found it unnecessarily excessive. Too many stimulants and not enough time to rest her eyes. Not enough time to meditate.

A whole month gone by and Tomoe found herself wishing she had never been summoned. The cool breath of the wind on her skin reminded her of the early snows Central Japan. She found herself hoping for snowfall everytime she stepped outside her Master's home. All the more reason to stay inside, for she found snow wanting a companion and the whole in her heart yearned only for one.

Tomoe kept the proper distance from her Master as they walked together: two steps to the rear and slightly to the left. As she let her Master lead the way, Tomoe kept her eyes sweeping the environment.

In another life, she led soldiers through fateful battles and tense skirmishes. One false step could prove disastrous. The clamour of carnage and chaos of war had ingrained themselves into her modern. Wariness when away from home had been pounded into her flesh. Each time Tomoe ventured out from where she considered herself safe, she found herself expecting a battle.

As a Servant, her weapons were always within arms reach. A simple summoning could grant her the familiar grip of sword, spear, or bow. And yet, she felt vulnerable. They passed a small group of teenagers going the opposite way. They talked too loudly in Tomoe's opinion. She sped up as they passed one another and bumped into her Master.

"Sorry," he said automatically. He glanced over his shoulder with an apologetic smile.

"Hurry up," Tomoe grumbled.

"Will do," Liam sighed.

When he wasn't talking, staring at her, or breathing loudly, her Master was bearable. Though he was a peculiar mage by her estimation. His magecraft seemed limited to surveillance rather than combat support. He had shown her a map of the city and indicated each of his warding totems affixed to high traffic areas. His cognition was something akin to watching multiple computer monitors at once. But when the attention was focused on a singular thing, it was obvious.

And when his attention fixed itself onto her, Tomoe wanted to die. He bore no ill will towards her, as far as she could tell. She just hated the way he looked at her. She could enumerate each and every way it made her feel but to describe it would bring her broken heart too much grief.

The wind gathered and a frosty blast of air rolled off the harbor. Tomoe looked up. The South bridge stood with cables and towers swaying in the wind. It's static organe lights held a baseline while its blinking red ones popped on and off. Traffic came and went at a slow pace, and foot traffic came only in ones and twos crossing the bridge.

Her Master led her to a diner that overlooked the harbor and docks. It was a whole in the wall place that smelled alright, if a little greasy. Patrons ranged from kids still in highschool to old timers and blue collar dock workers and salarymen from the nearby bank. It was also a quiet place where no one looked her way twice.

"Try the chicken and waffles," Liam suggested, "They're a special here."

"I don't need to eat," Tomoe reminded him.

Her Master didn't glare at her, he didn't even frown. Something about his look softened, like he wasn't going to put up a fight. "It will help with mana replenishment. Natural energy helps replenish the magical stuff too. And I don't think the alternative …"

_Lewd! _Tomoe bristled internally. The kind of mana transfer he mentioned was as substantial as it was shameful in her eyes. She sntached the menu from Liam's hand and waited for the server.

"Yeah," Liam joked with a low voice. "Me too."

"To quote a friend of mine," Tomoe said under her breath, "_Shut up, or I'll burn you_."

Then, her Master did something to infuriate her more. He rolled with the verbal punches and quit the battlefield. He busied himself with a cup of coffee and long glances out the window of their booth.

_Does he not take me seriously? _Tomoe asked herself. _He is far too comfortable around me. _

Perhaps it was how easy-going her Master was that filled her with displeasure. He traipsed through the streets like a peacock. She suspsted his foresight and surveillance lended him the confidence. She still found it unbecoming of her Master to not be on guard more. The hiding away with she could understand though.

With his lack of magical circuits and her shallow mana reserve, they were a troubled pair. _He would have been better off with an Assassin class Servant. And I would have been better off with any other Master. _

As much as she thought it, it still felt wrong to believe it. From the Throne of Heroes, she had heard his call. The oath he swore could not be broken easily and he conducted himself with it. She just found it hard to forgive what he said during the summoning.

Tomoe looked up from her menu and observed her Master. He had the same look, day and night: exhausted. The smiles lines cracked his face line a canyon in a drought. The bags under his eyes grew or shrunk but never disappeared altogether. There was also the faint scarring on his lower lip, as if he had bitten it enough times to bleed. Exhausted was his natural state.

Then, he would look to her with a deceptive ease. He would act like everything went according to his plans. His performance was so believable that exhaustive aura of his disappeared.

But it was a lie. Tomoe did not like lies. Lies led to secrets. Secrets led to betrayals. She could demand honesty from him at any moment, but doing so she feared a regressive change rather than a progressive one. If her Master doubled down on his lie, she could never trust him.

Ergo, his first lie had to be atoned before she could trust him. The first lie, the first thing he said to her, that is all she needed him to redress. If not, they she would simply bear with him. He wasn't so terrible, she had to admit. That was not a high standard of praise but it amounted to something.

_Be reasonable Tomoe. You can't forgive someone if you don't give them a chance. _

"I didn't mean it," Tomoe said quietly to her menu.

"I will conduct myself with honor," her Master said more to himself than her. "I shouldn't forget that."

"Never," she agreed, all too eager to change the subject.

Then, a question popped in her head. What wish allowed him to enter the Holy Grail War despite his shortcomings. She had to know. She wanted to know, but the consequence of knowing would require an exchange. That was the most reasonable expectation. She would trade the knowledge of her Master's wish for her own. She would ask him after they returned to the house.

As the server approached, Tomoe gave her order. When his turn to order came around, he seemed distracted. His gaze affixed to something outside the window, out on the docks. He stood up and shouted something.

His voice was lost in the ensuring inferno which swallowed an entire city block.


End file.
